The Hotel

The radiator holdsits boiling waterlike an accordionholding its breathin a ditch. The roomitself is simple,the sort rented outnight by nightto the poor to makemore poor or to die inbut it is not nightnor is she poor. Shecould have affordeda nicer room and it isday. Closing the blindsthe way someonetakes out a contactthat’s been botheringher, she lies down,the only soundswrenches clunkingin the radiatorand a boy playingpiano in the lobbylike someone fallingdown stairs. Clearlyhe is unsupervised.Clearly soon someonewill come grab himby the wrist, shakinghim once, the way oneshakes a thermometer.Clearly it is a boy,or a drunk manwho’s never playedand wants only to feelthe cold ivory keysthe way a womanwill sometimes feelthe foreheadof a child she knowsis perfectly well.

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